


Righteous

by Doitsuki



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Creepy, Doom, Drabble, Good and Evil, I love how that's a tag lmao, Misunderstood Melkor, Other, The Void, but not really, um, unnecessary violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-21
Updated: 2015-10-21
Packaged: 2018-04-27 06:42:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5037865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doitsuki/pseuds/Doitsuki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lawful Good Manwe used to love his brother. A pity they cannot be together any more.<br/>This is right, what he does.<br/>So he thinks.<br/>It cannot be any other way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Righteous

**Author's Note:**

> This text is meant to accompany a random drawing I did, whilst listening to Blind Guardian. Uh... it can be considered a drabble fic, I guess. :D

 

“How can you do this?! You’re _mad!”_ Melkor twists and shrieks until his throat is aflame, but it reaps little more than scorn.

“Mad?” Manwë can almost laugh at the sight. “Why, look at yourself for a moment before accusing me of that. Who here is chained, screaming, fire alight in his eyes with the title ‘Corruptor of the World’?”

“That is my _passion_ , the very same you suppressed! Damn you, let me free! I cannot stay here! I… I will perish!”  
“You silly thing. Do you forget your origin, crazed and hopeless as you are? You are a Vala, albeit not a very good one…” Manwë’s hand comes to his brother’s cheek. There it caresses the three great slash marks, pure black against grey flesh. There is life yet in Melkor’s wearied projection of a body, but soon that too will fade. _For the better_ , Manwë thinks. A gentle smile graces his thin, pale lips. “Yes… you’ve been very _bad_ , Belekoroz. Killing all those poor, innocent elves… not to mention the destruction of our father’s work.”

Melkor shivers at the first use of his ancient name in millenia. This time it is not spoken with reverence or love at all. There is an icy gleam of not quite hate in Manwë’s eyes, narrow and white-lashed as they are. His grip is freezing against Melkor’s heated flesh, for his blood is lava and spirit burning. A low, pained groan escapes his scarred lips. The crack of bone splits a wider grin across Manwë’s face and a pain in Melkor’s jaw. He has not felt his brother’s strength since they were young. Now Manwë squeezes, harder and harder, sliding down to his neck. His jaw lies unhinged, mouth open.

“Whah…” He figuratively shuts his mouth – there are less embarrassing ways to speak now, as they stand together in pure blackness. _“Why are you doing this to me? You claim me mad as I am now, but after **eternity** alone? Chained, here? Why? Can you not see this is wrong?”_

Manwë laughs softly and it is such a joyful sound, like birds chirping in sunlit trees. “And now you speak to my mind, as we once did.” Melkor’s inner voice is still a deep, threatening growl yet grows weaker the more his strength is drained. Merely standing with such heavy chains about him is a trial in itself. But he will not fall. Not to the knees of his brother… _“I see more than you ever could, Belekoroz. I can do nothing wrong, as you should know well. You belong here in the darkness, o Master of Shadows. Here you cannot harm that which does not deserve it. Rend your flesh with chain and nail, and leave Arda further unmarred. That is your fate, forever and for always. Perhaps one day I will visit you…”_

“Aah!!” Melkor’s denial is an open shout aloud, the force of heated breath skewing Manwë’s perfectly straight hair. _“No! No! You are NOT going to condemn me to this, for my expression, my deeds, my **creation** …”_

 _“Your creation is **wrong**_. **_You_** _are wrong, you were never meant to be… not like this. You are a **freak** , brother…” _Manwë’s face is twisting now, a nasty grimace forming on his formerly smooth glee. _“Destruction incarnate. There is not a soul in existence that wishes you anything but dead. This is what is best, I have decided. The others agree, you know? Námo has so kindly allowed me his door… and the space beyond.”_ He pushes Melkor to his knees, dangerously close to the edge. Melkor knows the drop behind him to be something he will never climb out of, not while he is tethered with chain and shackle to the unending darkness of night.

 _“No…”_ Powerful inner voice whispers for mercy. _“Please…”_

Manwë laughs aloud, throwing back his head. “Ah, look how sweetly you beg, greatness now a blackened wretch. Tell me, what would your precious Mairon think of you if he saw these tears you cry?”

Melkor freezes. There is indeed a thick, black trickle from his eyes. _‘No. No. No.’_ His thoughts descend into frenzied denial even as Manwë turns to leave. But the Lord of the Skies will not fly, not yet. He reaches past the open door, into a space Melkor cannot see. From there, a body is pulled. A live, squirming body.

“Sweet little Mairon… servant of Aulë, traitor of the highest degree…” Manwë’s silky tones drip poison into Mairon’s delicately pointed ears. The Maia fights with all his strength but the sheer weakness of his beaten body overcomes his flaming spirit. He has fought for so very, very long. And it appears his parting words with his Master had not been his last. There on his knees, bound and beaten (and lacking the lower half of his face) is Melkor, the formerly Great and Powerful Dark Lord.  Might no longer arisen and melting into the floor, Melkor’s red eyes flick to Mairon. Manwë’s long, bony fingers coil around the Maia’s slender neck. Mairon wears little more than scraps of his robes, black, gold and red in tatters from harsh capture.

“Your evil shall taint Arda no longer.” Manwë tilts his head up, and from his sleeve procures a silver dagger. The blood spilt from Mairon’s slit throat is black as is Melkor’s, proof of pure corruption. “A shame,” Manwë sighs. “Oh, what he could have been.”

Melkor can no longer speak. The slice is felt in his own neck, deep and resentful. He sees his brother’s true nature now, feels it, hears it and can taste it bitterly on the back of his tongue. No amount of sugar can hide what Manwë is. Manwë, who understands no evil, imparts it by ignorance alone.

_“You do not know… what you have done.”_

**Author's Note:**

> .....and Melkor gets sparta-kicked into the Void. THE END!


End file.
